Slowly, he lifts his hands.
Clap.
He doesn’t make a sound, bringing his palms together in a silent pantomime of applause.
Clap. Clap.
He nods at me, a salute from a soldier still stuck in the trenches to the one who finally jumped the wire.
I nod back, my throat tight.
I hit the call button for the elevator. The doors slide open immediately, as if the building itself is eager to spit me out.
I step inside and press the button for the lobby.
As the doors slide shut, cutting off the view of the firm, the Silver Thorn Tower, and the life I used to think I wanted, I finally exhale.
I have no job. But for the first time in five years, I have myself.
It’s time to go get my wife and bring her home.
Chapter 10
Margot
The lavender is lying to me.
It’s in the fibers of the borrowed robe, a scent so aggressive and clean it’s trying to scrub the last forty-eight hours off my skin. Wren uses a specific detergent, eco-friendly, hyper-concentrated, the kind of stuff that promises to remove stains from your soul along with the wine spots. I’m wrapped in it, tied tight at the waist, huddled on the edge of her guest bed. The fabric is a plush, white microfiber that feels like a counterfeit version of comfort.
It isn’t mine.
Nothing here is mine. My life is currently contained in a leather overnight bag sitting on a chair that matches a rug I didn’t choose.
Way to go, Margot.
My phone, resting on the nightstand next to a stack of Wren’s unread literary journals, starts to vibrate. Again. The sound is alow, mechanical buzz against the wood. It’s the twentieth time in three hours.
I don’t even have to peek at the screen to know it’s Ross. At this point, his name probably looks like a diagnostic error on the display. Verizon is about to call me any minute. “Ma’am, we can’t help but notice you haven’t answered a single one of your husband’s calls. Is your phone broken?”
Oh gosh. What if Ross went to the phone store in an effort to bully me into answering? He wouldn’t, but it’s a frightening thought.
Instead, I imagine the calls are coming from Ross’s office, or the car, or wherever he’s currently hiding. Each buzz is a reminder of the betrayal he committed in the center of our bedroom. Watching it vibrate on the nightstand, I don’t bother to pick it up. I gave him multiple chances to connect with me, and he chose work every single time. I. Am. Done.
In the kitchen, Wren is making a salad, or venting rage on a cucumber. I can tell by theclack-clack-clackof a knife against a cutting board. Wren doesn’t do “quiet grief.” She does “active defense.” She’s been moving around the place for an hour, a whirlwind of protective energy, muttering about locks and lawyers and the inherent flaws of men who design skyscrapers but can’t remember who they’re sleeping with.
The phone stops.
For thirty seconds, there is nothing. I can almost hear the gears turning in Ross’s head, him recalibrating, trying to find a new angle, a different set of specs to fix the unfixable.
Then it starts again.Brrr. Brrr.
I want to take a hammer to it. To smash the screen until the pixels bleed out like his promises did.
But I don’t move. Because moving requires a kind of physical motivation I currently lack. Staying upright is habit now.
“Margot?”
Wren’s voice comes from the hallway, sharp and clear. Holding a stalk of celery, she appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Mind the Gap” and leggings that look like they’ve seen more marathons than I have. But it’s her face, full of pragmatic fury, that grabs my attention.
